


gargling jack in the shotgun shack (you can't come back)

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Derek is confusing, Dreams, Dubious Consent, First Time, Isaac POV, Isaac is confused, M/M, Memories, Past Abuse, everything is messed up and nothing makes sense, maybe kinda if you squint, some hints of onesided Derek/Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>̶P̶a̶c̶k̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶e̶v̶e̶r̶.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gargling jack in the shotgun shack (you can't come back)

**I.**

Cocksucker. That’s what his father would say, were he here - were he alive. Fucking cocksucker, no son of mine. Worthless trash, disgusting filth.

No matter. Isaac can’t be bothered to pay much mind to the opinion of a dead man.

It sneaks up on him: the precursor to what will inexorably come later first blinks into existence in the starlit dusk, not long after he’s fastening up the velcro straps of the camouflage satchel and following his elders across the tripwire minefield of steel lodged in the hard earth of the railway yard, headed westward for the shelter of the woodland thickets. It’s just the three of them now, and Isaac can no longer muster the enthusiasm and confidence this lifestyle previously inspired. Peter takes lead, cotton collar bunched up around the nape of his neck, feet shuffling noiselessly as he glides in through the trees like some vampiric ghoul from the ancient world, slinking along and touching down upon the brittle twigs and crunchy leaves. Derek trails behind - hangs back at a comfortable distance - shoulders tensed up into knots of strained muscle and unvented frustration. His eyes, downward cast, are hidden from the light of the moon by way of criss-cross shadows splayed out in jagged lines beneath the grid of vines and thick limbs intertwined.

Isaac keeps to Derek’s left, follows like a puppy at his master’s heels. He shoots his Alpha furtive glances now and again, seeking to pick out any sort of reaction to the events of the past several hours. Derek’s expression betrays nothing of his thoughts.

Further into the forest, they come across a dying rabbit struggling in the muck of a still-water pool under the shade of a pine tree. Flaky bits of decaying leaves intermix with the brown powder of the soil, all clinging to the animal’s fur and strung together with fallen needles, swarming with minuscule insects already salivating over the prospect of fresh meat. The stench of death fills Isaac’s nostrils - the sweet scent of blood overlaying the arhythmic tempo of the little creature’s heartbeat - and he growls low in his chest, wolf instincts pressing him to take/have/kill. Peter pauses, turns back. He arches an eyebrow. Isaac lifts his head in defiance, looks to Derek for instruction.

Derek stares at the rabbit for a moment, looks to Isaac and shakes his head. Once, brief. A simple no. Isaac relents, glancing back over his shoulder to watch as the rabbit kicks at its hindquarters, trying in vain to scrape away the writhing mass of black bugs, to relieve the itch. The light in its eyes is fading.

They make camp deep in the woods, nestled in a hollow in the sandstone crag overlooking the vast expanse of poison ivy and naturalized meadowsweet. Fireflies hover over the surface of the sea of greens and bright yellows and blues, fluttering about in tune with the drone of the hummingbirds’ wingbeats. Peter takes the satchel from Isaac, opens it up to remove the canvas sheet, darts down into the clearing to pick out sturdy branches for tent support.

Isaac rests in the crook of the hollow, back bent forward slightly to rest flush against the smooth rock. He picks at his nails, huddles in silence as Peter and Derek hunch over beneath the newly erected shelter and start a fire in the shallow pit formed from pebbles and topsoil and broken chunks of brick. A midnight mist begins to shower down from the grey clouds, soft droplets of rain slicking the edges of the stone at the mouth of the hollow. Peter rubs his palms together, shifts nearer to the pit as golden flames spark to life.

“You’ll need my help, nephew,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You know what an Alpha pack is capable of. And your leadership skills are...hmm. Shall we say lacking?”

Derek crouches close to the fire, sitting opposite his uncle. His face is turned downward, eyes fixed determinedly on the smoldering embers beneath the charred sticks. He glowers silently, tongue set forcefully into the corner of his cheek. Isaac watches warily - thinks he sees a vein pulsing in Derek’s neck - vaguely pretending he’s not eavesdropping.

The psychedelic glow of the moonlight shining in through the haze of cloud cover, illuminating the sprinkling of rain and dust and listlessly drifting lightning bugs. The cut of the rock hollow is sharp enough to protect the werewolves from the chill of the breeze, but the howling of air whistling through the brambles and viridian stalks in the valley is loud enough to strike resonant vibrations in their aching ribcages.

“Your Betas have been reduced to one,” Peter continues, sparing a brief glance at Isaac. “Having me in your corner will be a great asset, whether you like it or not. I would advise you to put aside our recent history for the sake of the future.” He cracks his knuckles, curls his toes tight inside his shoes. “You know I’m in the right here.”

Derek’s jaw clenches so tight, Isaac thinks for a moment that he might actually shatter his teeth. But no, the tension drains away, and Derek stands slowly, dusting off his pants at the knees. “We’re no longer family,” he says, stilted. “Understand that much.”

Peter just smiles, small and unaffected, as though he either doesn’t care or doesn’t believe, and is completely confident in his own desires coming to fruition. “Get some sleep, Derek.”

The crickets start up their chorus of ambient chatter, joining into the orchestra of white noise under the stars. Derek ducks his head to avoid knocking into the low hang of the ceiling as he moves to sit beside Isaac in the dark, sits down roughly and glares at the dust on his shoes, broods. 

Thin wisps of smoke trail in mesmerizing zig-zag spirals up from the epicenter of the crackling fire. Peter unlaces his shoes and removes them, sets them down at his left with a dull clunk. He lifts a white flute from his trench-coat pocket and holds it up to eye level for examination. Isaac squints, curious, sees that the instrument is hand-fashioned, carved from elk bone and ornamented with a raven’s feather tied at the end by a wicker string. Peter licks his dry lips, raises the flute to his mouth and beings to play. Softly.

It’s a haunting melody, gentle and sweet, melancholy. Isaac feels his eyelids droop, suddenly struck by limb-numbing weariness. A gust of wind sneaks in through the crevice of rock, and he shivers in the sudden cold. Derek takes notice, eyes narrowing into a slight frown. 

“Come here,” he grunts, raises his arm to beckon the boy closer. Isaac arches an eyebrow. Derek glares, beckons again. 

Isaac shrugs, more for his own benefit than for anyone else’s, shifting into Derek’s awkward, one-armed embrace. They sit like that for a while, quiet and unspeaking. All the time, Peter’s music echoes in the chamber, reverberating off the walls like thousands of ghostly voices wailing their laments in unison.

The clouds grow thicker and closer together, blocking out the light of the moon and stars. The fire flickers in and out of existence. Isaac yawns, blinks until his eyes fall shut. Instinctively, he leans his head on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek lets him.

“You have me,” Isaac says, although he’s not really sure why, or what he even means by it. Maybe as a reassurance that Boyd and Erica are safe and will return? Or that he won’t abandon Derek, too? Or both. Or neither.

He feels Derek tense at his side, and his stomach drops - he almost cringes away from the anticipated blow. But Derek relaxes after a second, and when Isaac opens his eyes to look up, the Alpha nods at him, expression as indiscernible as ever. 

Derek takes hold of his shoulders, guides him to lie down on the cold floor. Isaac obliges, tries not to jolt in surprise when Derek shifts closer to press up against his back, wrapping his arms around Isaac’s stomach to hold him in place. It shouldn’t be strange; he’s done this before - been encouraged to, actually - but only with Boyd and Erica. Never the Alpha. Never Derek. 

It’s a pack thing, he knows. But it still triggers something alien and uncomfortably specific in the back of his mind. Later, this will be the moment he remembers as the start of it all: lying still and listening to the sound of the music and rain with the furnace of Derek’s body heat keeping him warm from behind, lolling him into deep slumber. 

Peter pays them no mind. He sits cross-legged, playing his flute, eyes glowing in the dark, nails extending into curved claws. From Isaac’s view, the older man stands out in stark silhouette at the edge of the cavern, a shapeless mass sprung up from the dirt like a phantom shaman whistling out songs for apocalypse. 

The night wrings out the last of its rain, shuts out the water without a trace of thunder. The glowing goals beneath the ashen remains of the logs in the fire pit fade into nothingness.

Lights out, kids.

 

**II.**

Isaac dreams of walking down a cobblestone path in the bright of day, awake and alert and cloaked in a sheet of white satin, gossamer thin. There’s a sense of frisson in the humid air, thick enough to choke on. Dripping stalks of flowers in bloom sprout up from the rich earth all along the sides of the pathway; the scent of sweet nectar underlines the lingering taste of honeysuckle on Isaac’s tongue.

He swallows.

A trumpeting bellow resounds, startles the trees stiff. Isaac turns off the path and pushes through the undergrowth, callused fingers drifting against brittle bark and damp leaves. Water trickles from the branches above. Thorns sting at his legs.

He stops, emerging from a nest of tangled vines, looks ahead into the clearing where the midday mist is hovering in suspension above the ground like a spectral fog signaling the resurrection of some evil entity. The throaty, spine-tingling noise starts up again, and Isaac can see it now: the beast, lumbering aimlessly through the mist, formless and immense, moving forward with an aching slowness that only provides it with a greater sense of mystique and terror.

Isaac watches, entranced. The thing wanders, some fifty yards away, crawling/sliding/drifting/ambling at its languid pace. Isaac cannot make out its face - can’t even tell if it has one - but it seems to turn to look back at him, and they stare at each other for what feels like hours. Time slipping away as they stand silent in the mist.

_You little fuck!_

The voice makes him jump, and he looks down in bewilderment, goes rigid at the sight of his father’s bloodied face glaring up at him, half-buried in the dirt beneath his feet. 

 _You cocksucking fuck!_ the face spits, voice gargling, throat working furiously, submerged in soil and gravel. _Fucking filth!_

And then Derek’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Isaac swims back to consciousness, suddenly alert.

“Wha-?” he murmurs, wiping away drool from the corner of his mouth. Derek studies him detachedly, expression carefully arranged into his trademark scowl.

“Bad dream?” he grunts.

Isaac sucks his lip in between his teeth, bites down. He shrugs it off. The smell of fresh meat catches his attention, and he looks over Derek’s shoulder to see Peter sitting at the edge of the pit once more, turning a pair of rabbit carcasses on a spit over a newly forged fire. The three gather together in a circle and dig in, savoring the flavor, chewing in silence.

The birds chirp out a cheerful tune. Isaac stretches, pops his knuckles.

 

**III.**

They waste away the weekend in the woods, leaving Peter to his machinations. The former Alpha wanders off for hours at a time, carrying the empty satchel with him into the thickets and returning with a full purse. He carves a bowl from rotted wood and fills it with honey and herbs, humming under his breath all the while.

Isaac lounges on a boulder, watching. Derek paces back and forth, fingers flexing at his sides.

“What’s he doing?” Isaac murmurs softly, head cocked in interest as Peter draws a swooping pattern of red berry juice on the thick coat of moss under the drooping willow tree. Derek startles at the sound of his voice, stares. He recovers a second later, turns to look at Peter. 

“I don’t know,” he replies darkly, brow furrowed into parallel lines. “But if it will keep us safe from the Alpha pack, I’m not going to question it.”

Isaac straightens up, folds his knees inward to sit cross-legged. “You’re not curious?”

Derek’s scowl deepens. “No. Now be quiet for a minute. Let me think.”

“Yeah, okay.” Isaac bends back, arches into the curve of the rock. He closes his eyes and yawns, tries to settle down for a nap. The sound of Derek’s heavy footsteps resonates over the gentle brushstrokes of Peter’s nimble fingers at work.

 

**IV.**

Sunday evening, they return.

“That’s it?” Isaac asks, can’t help himself. A muscle tics in Derek’s jaw, but Peter just smiles pleasantly.

“That’s it. Go home, go to school. Talk to your friends, do your homework. We’ll come for you when we’re ready.”

Isaac stares at the ground, sullen. “I don’t have a home,” he mutters petulantly.

“You have a foster family,” Peter says, unaffected. “Just be grateful they allow you to come and go as you please. Most teenagers would kill for that luxury.”

Standing at the edge of the tree-line, the Hales begin to unbutton their coats as they walk up the slope to the front porch of their decrepit house. Isaac hangs behind awkwardly, feeling more than a little lost. “Just go home?” he tries again, sounding whiny even to his own ears.

“Go home, Isaac.” It’s Derek who answers this time, and even though it’s not a forceful command, Isaac’s wolf hears the voice of his Alpha and feels compelled to obey. So he ducks his head in a stiff nod and turns on his heel to head for the road.

Plenty of time to think. It’s a long walk back into town.

 

**V.**

Tomorrow’s cafeteria is a sea of whispers and pointed stares, private conversations behind cupped hands and audible gasps of surprise. Isaac isn’t sure what lie Jackson has come up with to explain his resurrection from the dead, but judging by the number of jaws on the floor, it probably isn’t very convincing.

“The fuck are you looking at, Greenberg?” Jackson snaps, glowering. The other boy pales, shakes his head quickly before skittering away. Jackson turns back to the table, lower lip stuck out in a pronounced pout. “This is going to old really fucking fast...”

“Just be happy you’re not dead,” Stiles says icily, not looking up from his lunch. He takes a savage bite out of his apple. Scott and Isaac fidget uncomfortably, looking between Jackson and Lydia and Stiles. Isaac feels like he’s drowning in awkwardness.

“So,” Lydia says hastily, clearly eager to change the subject, “Isaac. What’s the scoop?”

Isaac blinks at her. “The scoop?” She nods.

“The scoop, dude,” Stiles pipes up, finally lifting his head away from his sandwich. “What’s new in the world of Mr. Broody McUpsideDownFace and Uncle BadTouch Psycho-Lazarus?”

“Ah.” Isaac rolls his shoulders back, stares contemplatively at the wall ahead. He can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes boring holes into his skull. Lydia arches an expectant eyebrow. 

“Well?” she prompts. Isaac shrugs.

“There’s a new pack in town, an Alpha pack. I don’t really know much more than that. I think Derek wants to handle it alone.” 

Scott groans. “Of course he does.” Stiles looks torn between exhaustion and frustration.

“Just what we need,” he mutters. “More werewolves.”

Lydia, on the other hand, looks distinctively relieved. “Good,” she says, nodding firmly. All heads tilt to stare at her, and she blushes, embarrassed. “I mean, good that he wants to deal with it by himself. He _should_. There’s no reason for us to get involved, right?” She looks to Jackson for validation, eyes wide and anxious. Jackson just looks grumpy.

“It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?” he answers delicately. He shifts his focus to Isaac, jabs an imposing finger in his face. “You tell Derek that I want in. With, you know, the pack. Or whatever. I’ve ‘learned my lesson’ and all that shit. I just want to be a part of it.”

Lydia makes an unhappy noise. Isaac bats Jackson hand away. “Tell him yourself.”

Jackson huffs through his nose. “But he’ll actually listen to you. He fucking _hates_ me.”

“What gave you that idea?” Isaac snorts. He clarifies, “That he listens to me, I mean. Why would you think that?” He scoots forward slightly, enjoys the slight tremor that runs up Jackson’s spine at the movement. “I don’t think you understand how this works, man. It’s not a democracy. We don’t all get a say. He’s the Alpha, and we just have to trust his judgment.”

Stiles doesn’t bother containing his derisive laughter. “And how’s that been working for you?” It’s spoken with his usual rapid-fire wit, but there’s an underlying note of bitterness that makes Isaac want to cringe. “Have you ever thought that maybe, I dunno, Derek doesn’t know what hell he’s doing?”

Jackson grunts in wordless agreement, shifting his arm around Lydia’s shoulder to allow her to shift closer and rest her head on his shoulder. Stiles’ eyes track the motion, his jaw clenching shut. His throat bobs.

“I’m going to have to agree with Stiles here, dude,” Scott says softly, his eyes wide and earnest and trained on Isaac. “I _get_ that Derek is just doing the best he can and that he has a lot of issues, but still. He’s not a good leader. That’s kind of obvious at this point.”

They’re right, and Isaac knows it, but he’s struck by a sudden thrill of defensiveness on Derek’s behalf. Perhaps just the wolf reacting to a threat against its Alpha. “He’s got issues, fine. _All_ of us have issues, in case you haven’t noticed. So what? Can any of you say you would have done a better job in his position?”

Most of the group looks a little uncomfortable, averting their eyes and falling silent. But Stiles answers pretty much straight away. “Yes,” he says, expression calm, completely self-assured. He picks a piece of apple skin out from between his teeth, wincing as his hand brushes against the fading bruise on his cheekbone. “Yes I can.”

Isaac looks away and glares at the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Allison entering the cafeteria through the double doors, tray in hand, accompanied by a couple of other girls from their chemistry class. She doesn’t look in their direction, walks with her friends to sit at a table on the other side of the room. Isaac sees Scott watching her with a wistful expression, mouth drawn into a thin line, eyes big and round and sad.

The clock strikes one not long after, and the bell rings to signal the end of lunch period. The group gathers up their trash without speaking, and everyone goes their separate ways.

 

**VI.**

His guardian - foster mother sounds wrong - doesn’t so much as give him a second glance when he comes in through the door at half past six, just as the sun is starting to set into the dip of the western mountain range. She waves vaguely at the refrigerator and mumbles something about leftover pizza and picking off the anchovies, and Isaac nods to sustain the pretense that he’s actually listening. The woman doesn’t seem particularly interested in getting to know him, seeing as the whole arrangement is just a temporary fix until he comes of age. Isaac can’t really blame her; he doesn’t care to know her, either.

He scarfs down one slice and drains a glass of water, just to be polite, and then he’s mounting the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, and he locks himself away in the upstairs room before being cornered into conversation with any of the other kids living in the house. It’s a small room: a desk and a tight closet, a single bed shoved in the corner with an antique lamp standing at its side. No decorations on the walls.

The sky is growing dark, light fading in the square panes of the window. The chipped flakes of dried paint on the glass stand out as dark spots against the hues of orange and purple stretched across the vista. Isaac’s eyes begin to shine, and he sits on the bedspread to open up his notepad and sketch.

He does this sometimes; drawing calms him, centers him. He’s not especially terrific at it, and he won’t win any prizes, but the act of putting a pencil to paper and scribbling out his thought-dreams is comforting in its own way. Flipping through the booklet now, he sees recurring patterns of nightmarishness: harsh lines and crudely smudges of lead. Images of glasses lying shattered on the carpet, of bruised knuckles scraped bloody from a recent beating.

There hasn’t been time, Isaac realizes, for him to truly mourn his father. For him to actually sit and contemplate and try to _feel_ something, anything. Now that he has the time, he finds himself coming up empty. He’s not sure whether to be grateful for that or not.

An owl’s hoot echoes somewhere nearby, and Isaac blinks, turns his face away from the paper as the last sliver of sunlight disappears behind the trees. He drops the notepad down to the floor and curls up under the scratchy sheets. The pillow cradles his head, turning warm against his cheek, and he drifts into the deep, hoping he doesn’t dream.

 

**VII.**

Derek comes by on Wednesday night, seemingly on some spontaneous whim. He lifts the window open with a snap - practically startling Isaac to death - and leaps in to plop beside the teenager on the bed.

“How are things?” he says gruffly.

Isaac stares at him, frozen in the act of chewing on the eraser of his pencil. He spits it out. “Uh. Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that?” Derek’s shoulder twitches in a most magnificently lazy attempt at a shrug. 

“Peter says he’ll be ready to confront the pack soon. Tomorrow, or the day after. Probably. Regardless, you’re not getting in the middle of it.” His expression turns sharp. “Understood?” 

Isaac raises his palms submissively. “Yeah, got it. You’re the boss.”

Derek winces, looks away. He glares at the floor as though the tile patterns have personally offended him. “That shouldn’t be-” he starts, cuts off. He sighs. “That shouldn’t be why...” He cracks his knuckles. “You should obey me because my ideas have merit, not...just _because_.”

Isaac looks around cautiously, not entirely convinced this isn’t some sort of trap. “I guess,” he says slowly. Derek nods firmly, raising his head to look Isaac in the eye.

“I want you to trust me, but I don’t want to rule by fear.” He stares intently, unblinking, like he’s trying to drive some message into Isaac’s skull. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

And it’s strange - because, in that moment, Isaac doesn’t feel a single spark of anger - but for some reason, he blurts out, “You broke my arm.” Derek flinches. Isaac feels guilty, doesn’t like the look of shame on the other werewolf’s face, but he repeats himself. “You broke my arm.”

Derek does look away now, gritting his teeth and returning his gaze downward to glare daggers at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says tightly, and Isaac figures that’s as close to a heartfelt apology as he’s ever going to get.

“It’s okay.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and then Derek lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Then why did you bring it up?”

Isaac can’t stop himself from grinning. He ducks his head. “Mostly to make you feel bad.”

Derek is looking at him now, and his mouth is twisted into an almost-smile - a weird, slanted line - and the ever present tenseness in his shoulders seems to be draining away. He punches Isaac in the shoulder, and it’s light, playful. The sort of brotherly gesture Isaac would have exchanged with Boyd after a hard day’s training in the heat of the afternoon.

“I just wanted to check in,” Derek says, standing up abruptly. He’s not smiling anymore, but not quite scowling. His hand comes to rest on the frame of the window in preparation for his exit. “Just lay low and be careful at school for the next couple of days. I’ll come back for you when it’s all over.”

Isaac scoots around to face him, lying at an angle on the mattress. He chews on his bottom lip. “Do you have to leave right now?” he asks. Derek’s face goes through a series of weird contortions, eventually settling on the usual blankness.

“I should.”

“Okay.” Isaac waves him off. “I should probably try and get some sleep anyway.”

Derek studies him for a moment or two, nods slowly. “Yeah.” And when Isaac looks up again, he’s gone.

Isaac sets his alarm clock and closes his eyes. Sleep doesn’t come so easily tonight. 

 

**VIII.**

The swim team practice finishes up early, and Isaac decides to go for a few laps, keep the pool all to himself. His trunks are a bit too tight, ride up at his knees, but they fit well enough. He takes a graceful leap off the diving board, preferring to jump in all at once rather than wading in one step at a time. His body cuts through the surface of the water like a knife slicing through soft flesh, and the chill strikes him to the bone. He shivers underwater, shaking off his arms and legs, and by the time he swims to the top for a breath of air, his body heat has adjusted accordingly to the temperature of the pool.

He can hear the team bustling about in the locker room off to the left, slippery feet slapping on the tile and shower spray mixing with the scrubbing of fingers in shampooed hair. A couple of boys are muttering darkly under their breath; some nonsense about how lacrosse players should ‘stick to their own turf.’ As though they own the fucking pool just because they swim here after school for five weeks. Isaac ignores them, diving back under to swim the entire length submerged. 

The glimmering orbs of the underwater lanterns shine eerily through the dark liquid, and Isaac closes his eyes to block them out. Muffled sounds echo in his ears.

When he’s gone back and forth at least fifty times, the locker room is empty and the overhead lights have been turned down dim. He pulls himself up over the edge of the deep end and sits with his legs trailing lazily in the water, watching his reflection turn distorted in the ripples. The sound of sandals flopping on the floor catches his attention, and he looks up and to the left as the double doors swing open. He nods in greeting.

“Hi.”

Stiles looks mildly surprised to see him, but he recovers quickly, nodding in return. “Hey.” He plays idly with the strap of his duffel bag, leaning at an angle, stance awkward.

Isaac brushes drops of water away from his shoulder, glances down at the water and back to Stiles. “Taking a swim?”

“Heh.” Stiles barks out a small, mirthless laugh. He shakes his head. “Definitely not. I doubt I’ll ever set foot in a pool again.” He gestures down the way. “I left something in the locker room. Came back to grab it.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Isaac turns away, figuring the conversation to be over. He hears Stiles’ footsteps fading, zones out for a minute. The slapping sandals grow louder once more as the boy returns, zipping up his bag and shouldering it over his arm. The noises cease as Stiles comes to a halt at the doors.

“You were a real asshole for a while there, you know?” he asks, like he honestly can’t stop himself from blurting it out. Knowing him, he’s probably been waiting to say that for ages.

Isaac looks up, smiles self-deprecatingly upon seeing Stiles’ wary expression. “I’m not a bad guy,” he says in response, and Stiles must take that as a sort of apology because the tightness around his eyes seems to loosen, shoulders going limp.

“Yeah, I know. But you were trying really hard to be, for some reason or another.” He chews on his lip, looks thoughtful. “Was it just because you wanted to make Derek proud of you, or...” He trails off, makes a weird flailing motion with his free hand. “I dunno. Like, maybe something to do with your dad, and-”

“Do me the favor of not assuming all my actions are related to my father beating the shit out of me,” Isaac interrupts coldly. “And I’ll do the same for you and your dead mother.”

It’s a low blow, totally unnecessary. Isaac feels the sting of guilt immediately. 

Stiles stares blankly, jaw hanging open as if Isaac had just slapped him. But then instead of getting angry, he closes his mouth and nods, eyes soft. Maddeningly _understanding_. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I can do that.”

He sounds so sincere, it’s fucking infuriating. Isaac looks away. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I know,” Stiles says. He grabs hold of the door handle, wrenches it open. “See you around, man.”

The clicking of the door behind him muffles the sound of his footsteps, and Isaac sits at the pool’s edge alone, listening to the sloshing of the water in the great tank. His face glows blue in the light from below. He sits there until his skin dries.

 

**IX.**

He’s tired of the creepy emptiness of his bedroom walls, decides to tape his sketches up for decoration.

There’s one he’s almost proud of: a dual portrait of Boyd and Erica. Their faces are sketched in lightly, crossed over one another and gazing skyward. Beneath the looming heads, he’d scratched out a rough drawing of two wolves running across a field towards the rising sun, claws catching on flower petals and dandelions, noses raised to howl at the morning light. Isaac tapes the paper over his bed, above the pillow. He steps back, biting his lip. 

He’s thought about them a great deal over the past several days. He understands why they left, can’t honestly blame them. He’s not entirely sure why he misses them; they weren’t _friends_ so much as acquaintances born of circumstance. Still. The pang of nostalgia is there, and he wants them back in his life.

He hopes they’re safe.

The next sketch goes over by the door: a landscape shot, modeled after the scenery from the woodland camp of the last weekend. Simple and crudely drawn, but there’s an inelegant prettiness to it. And it’s less likely to raise eyebrows from his guardian than the drawings of his nightmares.

The fan whirs overhead, and the pages tear softly from the notepad as he tapes everything up. Everything worth displaying. The nightingales chirp outside the window, little heartbeats banging a drum solo inside Isaac’s head. He comes to the last sketch, contemplates it for a moment before going to the closet and putting it up inside on the back wall. 

It’s an image of Derek, tall and brooding, looming in the shadows, eyes bleeding crimson by means of colored pencils, his hair a mess of dark lines, brow furrowed with frown lines. He’s staring straight ahead, and Isaac stares back, his stomach twisting up into uneasy knots. He closes the closet door quietly and goes to take a shower.

The downpour does not wash away the feeling of strangeness in his chest.

 

**X.**

Friday, just hours before dawn, and the whole world implodes in on itself. One fell swoop.

Isaac’s wolf senses it first. The prickling of the hairs raising on the back of his neck coupled with the warning growl that gurgles up in his throat before his conscious senses even register any sort of danger. He’s up out of bed and at the window in seconds, eyes flashing, searching for a sign.

He sees it: a burst of orange several miles out, a soundless eruption of flame and light, striking up from the earth and scorching black ash into the bark of the parting trees. A flock of birds take flight, fleeing, cawing in indignation, flapping away from whatever hellish thing lurks beneath the leaves and branches. 

Opening up the window, Isaac slips out onto the sill, grabbing hold of the roof shingles for support before dropping down to the bushes. He’s wearing pajamas and he’s barefoot, but the wolf is taking over, soles of his feet turning callused and nails extending into claws. He’s seeking out the sound, following his instinct.

_Pack. Protect._

_Derek._

He’s across the road and sliding down the slope, knocking aside stray brambles and vines and jumping from rock to rock over the ice cold brook. He can hear it now, in the distance. The cacophony of animalistic cries and tearing/ripping/breaking/shattering/killing/ _death_. Blood is pounding in his ears, the smell of sweat and salty tears palpable enough to taste. He’s running and running, and it feels like hours.

The clearing widens out, and he skids to a halt at the edge, wolf subsiding, recoiling in shock. There is a corpse on the forest floor, and it would do no good to try and recognize the face; the body is ripped open from neck to groin, innards strewn all out across the grass, pierced heart still pulsing and oozing dark liquid. Isaac grabs a nearby tree for support, swallows back the bile in his throat. He hears an earth-shattering bellow, ducks down and seeks out the source. 

There is a stomping coming around the bend, and he sees an unfamiliar wolf - one of the Alpha pack, his mind supplies - running backwards, hissing and snarling at some unseen pursuer. The wolf vanishes from sight, and Isaac hears its footsteps fading. And then Peter Hale emerges from the leaves: standing erect, moving slowly. His every footstep sends deep vibrations through the ground, every rattling breath carries the stench of carnage. He’s drenched in blood, but not his own, and he’s naked and painted from head to toe in bluish tar - glowing with some mesmerizing energy, splayed out in the loopy patterns of some language foreign to these times. He crouches low, teeth elongating, sabertooth in appearance. His body shudders, and he leaps forward, charging fast enough to disappear in the blink of an eye. Isaac listens, tries to hear over the sound of his own pounding heart. He hears the footsteps of the unfamiliar Alpha: fainter, fainter, fainter. Then a strangled yelp, a sickening crack. Then nothing.

Isaac shivers. A hand clamps down on the back of his neck and drags him to the ground. He opens his mouth to yell, but freezes, recognizes the blazing red eyes above him. “Derek?”

“I told you to stay away!” Derek is snarling, saliva frothing into foam at the corners of his mouth. Isaac whimpers, bares his neck.

“I know, I’m sorry! I heard...I saw, and I wanted to make sure you were-”

“It’s not your responsibility to protect us!” Derek’s teeth are inches from his throat, snapping together, threatening. “That’s not your job!”

Isaac squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, body rigid. He feels Derek go stiff above him. The snarling stops. They’re both frozen for a moment, and then Derek is backing away, moving off him. Isaac opens his eyes.

“Stupid boy,” Derek murmurs, glaring down at him. “Idiot boy. All of you kids...”

He bends down to lift Isaac into his arms, carrying him away from the bloodbath, muttering under his breath all the while. Isaac wants to protest, but his voice fails him. And then he’s leaning into the touch and closing his eyes again. And passing out.

 

**XI.**

He wakes around midday. They’re in the Hale house, and he’s lying on an old mattress on the kitchen floor. Derek is sitting in a chair at the table, watching him.

Isaac coughs. “What-” he starts.

“They’re all dead,” Derek cuts him off, expressionless, toneless. “The other pack. They’re all gone. We’re safe.”

Isaac swallows. “Umm. Erica? And Boyd?”

Derek looks away, out the window. “They weren’t with them,” he says quietly. He scratches his chin roughly, curls his hand into a fist on tabletop. “I don’t know where they are.”

“Oh.” Isaac makes a valiant effort to sit up, but he finds that his limbs have been sapped of all their energy. He flops back on the mattress, blinks up at the ceiling. “What about your uncle?”

Derek frowns, obviously not expecting that question. “Peter is fine.” There’s more than a hint of bitterness in his tone. “He’ll be back later. So he said.”

Isaac rolls over on his side, bites down hard on his tongue. “Yeah.”

It’s quiet in the house. So very quiet. There are too many memories here; memories that belong to other people. Isaac feels like an intruder on something private by simply being here. He can’t bring himself to look around, to inspect. So he just stares at the wall.

There’s a rustling behind him, and he inhales sharply, surprised, as Derek slips in behind him to lie on the mattress at his side. “Go to sleep,” Derek says. He doesn’t cuddle, doesn’t really even touch. He’s just there. A presence close by.

It’s something. Isaac relaxes, listens to the steady thrumming of Derek’s heart and stares at the wall. The woodwork speaks no stories.

 

**XII.**

He goes for a run later, pushes himself to burn off at least a little energy before going to sleep _again_ for the night. He runs up the side of the two-lane road, circling back around through the walking trail in the woods to take the shortcut back to the Hale house. It’s strange how the forest displays no sign of the previous night’s events. The birds are back in their nests, surface critters nestled in their underground hollows. Life starts anew, continues on.

It’s dusk already when he gets back to the house, lumbering up the porch steps, sweating. He pauses at the door, hearing muffled voices from within.

“I would have expected you to be a little more grateful.” Cracking the door ever so slightly, Isaac makes out the shape of Peter’s trench-coat, hem billowing around his feet. “After all, I _did_ just save your life. Does that not count for something?”

“You saved yourself, nothing more.” And that’s Derek now, face tight, speaking in cold anger. “I agreed to work with you until the threat of the Alpha pack was dealt with. And now they have been. So I think it’s time for us to part ways.”

“You think that, do you?” Peter sounds reasonably calmer, but there’s an unmistakable edge to his words. A dangerous undertone. “Well, if one of us has to go, why should it be me? You think you deserve this house.” A soft chuckle. “Although, I suppose the irony would be fitting. For you to live out your days in the home your actions brought burning to the ground.”

Isaac cringes, waiting with bated breath in the deafening silence. He’s half-expecting Derek to snap, but the Alpha replies instead with steely calmness. “You want the house? You can have it. I don’t care who goes or who stays. I just want you out of my life.”

Peter shifts his stance, tucking one foot behind the other, toe tapping against heel. “Relax, nephew. I have no intention of living in this hovel.” A pause. “I would, however, like it very much if you would come with me.” His tone is creepily gentle, fond. “I have such plans for us.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Isaac squints through the crack, sees Derek turn his back away from Peter, gripping the edges of the living room doorframe. “But you killed Laura. You murdered your own niece in cold blood, and there’s no fucking way you’re coming back from that. Whatever ties you and I once had died with her.”

Peter inhales slowly, breathes out through his nose. A piercing, whistling noise. “I can see you need time to think about this. That’s fine. I’ll come back in, say...a month? Two months? I’ll give you some space to ponder it, separate your emotions from your instinct. We’ll have this conversation again once your head is clear.”

Derek turns slowly, looks him in the eye. “If you ever come back here, I’ll kill you on the spot. And this time, I’ll make sure you stay dead.”

The floorboards squeak as Isaac’s toes curl inside his shoes. He breathes shallowly, hands pressed hard on the outer walls, peering in through the crack. Peter stands silent for a moment, then turns, makes for the door. “I’ll be seeing you, Derek.” Isaac jumps back, moves aside as Peter comes barging through the door. The older werewolf looks down at him and smiles lightly, claps him on the shoulder. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Isaac,” he says. And then he steps down away from the porch and walks off down the road, vanishes into the shadows.

Isaac turns to go into the house, startling as Derek appears at his side. 

“We’re going out,” Derek says roughly, slamming the door and grabbing Isaac by the arm. “Come on.”

Isaac opens and closes his mouth soundlessly, eventually settling for mute agreement, allowing himself to be dragged towards the Camaro parked in the driveway. He looks up. The crescent moon is coming out to play with the stars.

 

**XIII.**

‘Going out’ in this case is apparently code for a dimly lit strip joint fifteen miles out of town, just off the third highway exit. The building is log cabin style, complete with a flickering neon sign over the entrance. The toxic smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol nearly bowls Isaac over as Derek pulls him towards the door. The bouncer raises an eyebrow, gives Isaac a once over. He turns to Derek with an expression that reads, _I’m not buying it._

“Designated driver,” Derek answers without being asked, and either there’s something in his glare or the bouncer just doesn’t give a shit, but regardless, the guy gives them the wave in, rolling his eyes for his own benefit.

The mist of smoke stings at Isaac’s eyes, and he pulls the sleeve of his jacket up to his face to conceal his mouth and nose. Derek directs him to a table in the back, and they sit side by side in the shadows. Isaac fidgets uncomfortably, long lashes fluttering slightly as he peers hesitantly up towards the stage where a voluptuous redhead is removing her bra and tossing it into the eagerly clutching hands of the men in the front row. He quickly looks back down at the table, wishing he at least had a drink to occupy himself with.

Derek sits rigid beside him, staring intently ahead and watching as more dancers come out from behind the cheap, sparkly curtain and join the redhead onstage. His expression is tight, focused, and he looks less like a drunk salivating over his object of lust than a man devoting every fiber of his being to escaping from his own mind for a few minutes. \

A lanky blonde guy in a Rolling Stones t-shirt walks over to their table, notepad in hand, pen tucked behind his ear. He spares Isaac a curious look before turning to Derek, expectant.

“Beer,” Derek says carelessly. “Any kind.”

The guy nods, doesn’t bother to write anything down. He turns back to Isaac, frowning, assessing. “Umm, just a water,” Isaac says weakly. “With a lemon. No, uh. Actually a lime. Yeah.” The guy shrugs and leaves. Derek sits back in his chair, ever-present frown firmly in place. Isaac rubs his palms together nervously, presses his fists into his lap. “So,” he starts. “Uh...” He rubs the back of his head, bats away a piece of grass caught in the tangled curls. “Can you even get drunk? I thought you - we, I mean. I thought we couldn’t?”

Derek’s fist comes up to rest against his mouth, rubbing at his lips as he watches the redhead slide down the pole, legs spread wide, star-studded heels glinting in the harsh lighting. “We can’t. But we can still drink.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess.” Isaac looks away, turns his focus back to the stage. 

He’s a teenage boy; it doesn’t take much to get his engines up and running. But this is just weird. He’s never really thought about coming to one of these places before, and certainly not with a friend. [Or with whomever the hell Derek is to him. A mentor? Employer? Boss?] And maybe it’s the setting or the circumstances, but there’s just something profoundly unsexy about watching women move like this. Like puppets jerking on strings, dancing to the cheers and jeers of slack-jawed idiots leaning up to shove crumpled dollar bills in their g-strings with sticky fingers.

There are two bartenders behind the counter: a man and woman, both in their mid to late forties. They look as though they could be husband and wife. He’s tall, decked out in plaid flannel and a green hunting cap, dark bearded. She’s stocky and broad-shouldered, straw colored hair tied up in the back, face weather beaten and lined. Like it’s been carved from wood. There’s character in that face. The two of them are leaning casually up against the shelves of bottles and dusty glasses, making idle conversation as they fill out orders. Isaac finds himself staring at them instead of the show onstage.

“Your drinks,” Rolling Stones dude says, returning with a pair of glasses in hand. He slides the frothing mug of beer over to Derek, sets the water in front of Isaac. “And your lime,” he adds, dropping it in with the ice.

Isaac murmurs a quiet thanks, forcing a little smile. Derek says nothing.

Little black boxes on the sides of the stage hiss to life, spewing forth a thin mist of smoke. The crowd up front cheers. A man tosses his hat into the air, and a fist pumping in the air knocks it across the room accidentally. The dancers fall back, and a brunette takes lead, slowly undressing and slinking forward, hair thrashing back and forth as the music kicks in, strobe lights blasting.

Isaac chances another glance at Derek. The Alpha is sitting with his arms folded, still watching in silence. His face hasn’t lost an ounce of tension.

“Hoping to get laid?” Isaac jokes. He immediately wants to kick himself in the nuts.

Derek turns to face him, mouth twisting into a lopsided smile for a half second. “I wouldn’t complain,” he replies.

There’s an edge to the way he says it: a half tease, half dare. Like he’s playing along with the joke, but also being sincere. Sincere and...

...and something else, too.

They stare at each other, and Isaac suddenly feels nervous. He licks his lips, feels his heart skip a beat when he notices Derek’s eyes tracking the movement. Derek looks back up at him, and Isaac clenches his jaw shut, cocks his head.

The strobe lights flash on and off, over and over. Derek keeps staring, deadly serious. And Isaac knows that they’re on.

 

**XIV.**

They somehow stumble outside through the fog of smoke, coughing and sneezing through the forest of cigars and chairs tables, and they don’t look at one another as they walk around the side of the building to the parked car. They don’t talk when Derek presses the unlock button on his keys, and they don’t talk when he opens the door to the backseat and shoves Isaac inside. They don’t talk when Derek climbs in after him, pinning him down, and they definitely don’t talk when his forehead knocks up against Isaac’s and their mouths slant together into the sloppiest of first kisses.

Isaac isn’t gay. He’s never questioned himself in that regard. He was one of the first players on the lacrosse team to find out about Danny, and while he never had a problem with it, he also never felt compelled to ‘experiment’ the way some of the other guys in school seemed to have been. 

And yet he’s here: held down in the back of a car, hands curled tightly in his hair and stubble burning against his cheeks as he swaps saliva with another guy. A body is a body, and it feels so good to be touched in a positive way, to be _wanted_ by someone, that the prickling sensations and warmth blossoming inside his chest inspire only pleasure. No revulsion, no disgust.

They’re kissing so long, Isaac actually comes down from the high long enough to wonder whether or not they should pull the car around to a more isolated spot. He would say so, but then Derek is moving away from his mouth and nosing at his neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin stretched across his throat. Isaac shudders, letting out a quiet whimper, and Derek bucks forward at the sound, hands moving away from Isaac’s hair to grab hold of his shoulders. Hard enough to bruise.

Isaac arches upward, wrapping his arms tighter around Derek’s back, scrabbling to get a good hold on anything, reaching for whatever. He’s panting, and it sounds gross to his own ears, but Derek’s breathing just as hard, and that sounds disturbingly _hot_.

Derek’s hips twitch forward again, and he’s growling now, a strangled noise, possessive. He moves one hand down low, snakes up under Isaac’s shirt to brush against his skin. His body is heavy, weighted down with muscle, and he’s pressing hard against Isaac, pinning him to the upholstery. And it doesn’t take long before Isaac is shooting off, slicking the inside of his boxers and turning his face into the crook of the seat to hide his blush.

They stop moving, hearts beating like drums in their chests, body heat through the roof. Derek squirms slightly, expression twisted up like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. Isaac blinks up at him, frowns. The he realizes that Derek’s still hard.

He looks downward, looks back up at Derek, eyebrow raised. “Back to the house?” he asks hoarsely.

Derek snarls in response, dipping down to bite punishingly at Isaac’s lower lip before grabbing his car keys out from where they’ve fallen beneath the passenger’s seat.

 

**XV.**

The sliver of the moon is glowing in the cracked window. Derek is standing with his back to the wall, leaning leisurely with his head lolling forward, eyes lowered. Isaac is kneeling on the mattress, hands resting gingerly on Derek’s hips, shaking with adrenaline and nerves.

He’s definitely not drunk, and this thing seems a lot more frightening now that they’re both naked.

“You don’t have to,” Derek grits out, like it’s killing him to say. Like he’s right on the verge of shoving his cock in and out of Isaac’s throat until the boy chokes on it. “You can say no.”

Isaac closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Derek’s belly. The Alpha breathes slowly, in and out, and his skin feels like fire. Isaac lets his mouth part slightly, drags his tongue over Derek’s navel, drifts downward, pauses. He pulls away. “I know I can,” he murmurs. He gasps sharply, wincing as Derek’s fingers clench tightly in his hair.

“Well make up your mind. I’m losing it up here...”

There’s something of a challenge in that, and Isaac’s wolf bristles, reacts without thinking. He swallows the length of Derek’s cock, mouth wet and warm, and he tries not to smirk at the tortured groaning his efforts produce. Derek’s hands are clamped hard on either side of his face, hips twitching forward in rhythm, fucking his mouth. It’s a surreal feeling, borderline violent, but it’s less intimidating in the heat of the thing. 

“Fucking-” Derek swallows thickly, eyes falling closed as his head rolls back to bang softly against the wall. He shudders, threads his fingers through Isaac’s hair, touches his cheek. “God...”

Isaac isn’t quite sure whether he’s actually _good_ at this or if they’re both just so touch-staved that any contact at all feels like nirvana. Either way, he’s not going to complain. Straight or not, there’s an immense satisfaction in seeing a guy like Derek Hale come undone.

Derek comes faster than anticipated, and he doesn’t bother with a warning. Isaac splutters, almost chokes, swallows everything down - mostly out of some fucked up sense that it would be rude to spit on the floor, regardless of the house’s current state. He pulls away, shuddering, blinks up through long lashes to stare into glowing red eyes.

He barely has time to recover his voice before Derek is pouncing on him, slamming him into the mattress and nosing against his cheek.

“Let me fuck you,” Derek says. He nips at Isaac’s earlobe, drags the sharp points of his canines along the sensitive skin beneath his jawline. “I need to fuck you.”

Isaac’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Oh.” He looks up at the ceiling, eyes wide, darting around. He feels dazed. “I, umm. Already? Don’t you need to...you know?”

Derek pulls up to look him in the eye, mouth stretched in a decidedly wolfish smirk. “I’ll be ready by the time you are.” His hand slips down Isaac’s thigh, going lower and lower, drifting meaningfully. Isaac’s stomach flip flops.

“Oh,” he says again. He makes a soft, whining sound. “I don’t know. I’m not...” He breaks off. “I don’t know...”

Derek’s body is a furnace, flaming against Isaac’s skin. He’s got the younger boy pinned, held down chest to chest. His breath tickles Isaac’s nose. “Say yes.

It’s a cheat; it’s the Alpha talking, and Isaac’s wolf can’t help but respond. Isaac’s eyes flash, and he bares his throat in submission, goes silent and bites his lip as Derek’s fingers start to work inside of him. It’s almost an itching sensation, a burning of sorts, and he wants to squirm, but he clenches a fist into the mattress instead, lets his claws come out and slash into the foam padding.

“Shh,” Derek is saying, soft, soothing. “Hush.”

Shit. More fingers now, and it’s a feeling of stretching; it fucking _aches_ , and Isaac wants to scream. But there’s a thrill to it, too. It’s so alien from anything he’s ever known, and the knowledge of what is soon to come is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. Derek’s breathing has turned shallow, eyes glazed over with lust. He leans forward and bites Isaac’s lip, licks the wound to heal the cut.

“Just relax.” He’s lining up now, getting ready. 

And then he’s in. It’s a spear, an iron rod: white hot and painful as fuck, leaking. In, out, in, out. It’s all sensory, everywhere, and there’s no _way_ he isn’t bleeding. He must be. Derek is slamming into him, and the noises he’s making aren’t human. They’re not even wolf-like, really. It’s just sweat and desperation for him, and all thoughts are drowning in the overload of touch.

“God damn it.” Derek’s eyes are blazing, rolling back in his head. “Fucking tight.”

Isaac’s vision whites out: somewhere in the midst of the agony and gratification, a vision of broken glasses on the floor. And then an even briefer flash from years long past. Of the man and the woman, mother and father back when they were happy. When he was happy. And they’re smiling, hands interlocked, and there’s a sense of peace and security and love.

And Isaac breaks, collapsing in on himself and sobbing, tears leaking from his eyes and dripping down his face in streaks. He barely registers Derek going still, wrenching out of him and pulling away.

“Shit. Fuck. Isaac? _Isaac?_ ”

There are hands cradling him, holding him close, and he tries to wipe at his eyes, blinks blearily and sees Derek staring at him, face contorted into a mask of horror and self-loathing. “Are you hurt?” His voice is strained, right on the verge of losing control. “Did I hurt you?”

Isaac hiccups, closes his eyes. He shakes his head. “No, it’s not-” He breaks off, unable to finish.

“Isaac?” Derek is shaking him, impatient. He sounds genuinely freaked out. “Talk to me.”

The house is silent apart from their breathing, shallow and rapid-fire. Isaac exhales, chokes. “My father is dead, Derek,” he says quietly. He opens one eye, looks up. Derek stares back at him, looks torn between relief and guilt. 

“Yeah,” he says, drained. “Yeah, he is.”

The clouds close in and block out the moon. The light fades in the window, and the kids are left alone in the dark.

 

**XVI.**

There’s a moment in the morning where he forgets who he is - or rather _what_ he is - and it comes as a shock to behold his decidedly unbruised body in the shards of the bathroom mirror. It looks wrong, considering everything. Not a hickey to be seen. No blemishes.

Derek is sitting in the living room when Isaac comes back downstairs. Sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. He’s dressed now, shoes and everything. Isaac hooks a foot behind his leg, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps. Derek notices him, nods in greeting. He pats the floor beside him.

“Come here.”

Isaac moves closer, but he doesn’t sit down. He stands on the opposite side of the mattress, eyes flickering down to register the claw marks and unmistakable stains of semen. He winces.

“Hey,” he says.

Derek gives him a look. “Did you want it?” he asks bluntly. Alright. No beating around the bush then.

Isaac _does_ sit now, squatting down to Derek’s eye level. He rubs his palms together. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for,” he replies. “I consented.”

Derek makes an unhappy noise. He clears his throat. “That’s not the same thing. You make it sound like I-” 

He stops, looks away. His eyes turn hard, glaring into the kitchen. Isaac’s mouth twists at the side. “I wanted it, okay? Better?” Derek doesn’t respond.

The floor is dusty. Isaac drags his forefinger along one of the panels, drawing patterns in wide swoops. A bird chirps happily outside the window.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Derek says after a minute. “It shouldn’t have happened.” He’s looking at Isaac again, wary, cautious. Isaac can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“I don’t want to date you, dude. You don’t have to let me down easy.” 

Ah. And _there’s_ Derek’s trademark scowl. “That’s not what I meant,” he mutters, annoyance creeping into his voice. “You’re a child.”

“So are you,” Isaac responds petulantly. 

Derek snorts. His mouth twitches, hinting at a smile. “You know, sometimes you’re a lot like...” he starts, then fades off. His guards come up again, and the smile is gone.

Isaac thinks he gets it anyway. He nods. “I know. Is that why you decided to fuck me?”

Derek flinches like Isaac’s slapped him, eyes going wide. “Excuse m-”

“Never mind.” Isaac waves a dismissive hand. “Forget I said anything.” Derek’s glare doesn’t dissipate.

“Last night shouldn’t have happened,” he says again. Fucking broken record, this guy. “However mature you think you are, it was still wrong of me. Especially given...” His mouth turns down unpleasantly. “Especially given your background.” The implication is unmistakable. Isaac stiffens, an unpleasant feeling settling in his gut.

He flips Derek off. “My dad _beat_ me, asshole. It’s not the same at all.”

Derek shrugs. “It’s close enough. Just as bad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Jesus...” Derek buries his face in his hands. He looks like he either wants to laugh or kick Isaac in the crotch. Maybe both.

Isaac ducks his head, grinning. He marshals his expression into neutral blankness when Derek clears his throat, looks up. “Hmm?”

“It can’t happen again,” Derek says, deadly serious. “I mean it. I won’t insult your intelligence by listing off all the reasons. I think you know.”

Isaac stands slowly, winces. “Someone’s got a pretty lofty opinion of himself, if you ask me,” he retorts. He starts for the door. Derek blinks, surprised.

“You leaving?” he asks. Isaac glances over his shoulder, shrugs.

“I’ve got homework. Stuff to do. You know.” He pauses near the door, shoves his hands in his pockets. “I meant what I said the other day, though. About me still being here for you. With you, whatever.” He scratches his ear. “You still have me.”

Derek’s jaw clenches. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure if being Alpha is right for me,” he says, and it’s such a huge admission, Isaac can’t find the heart to make a sarcastic remark.

“Probably not,” he says instead. “Still. I’m yours. And when we find Boyd and Erica, they will be, too.”

“They’re probably dead,” Derek says, doesn’t bother to sugarcoat it. “You do realize that?”

Isaac swallows. He lifts his chin in defiance. “Maybe. But maybe not.” He looks at the floor. His toes curl inside his sneakers. “I think you could probably use a long, good cry,” he says abruptly. “I can’t say that I feel any better after last night, but hey. It’s a start.”

Derek looks skeptical. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

Isaac feels his mouth stretch into a wide grin, baring white teeth in jest and good humor. “Well, until then, you’ve still got me. And we’re pack. So... _this_...” He gestures meaningfully between them. “...yeah.”

“Isaac.” Derek’s expression is sharp again. “I already told you. It can’t happen again.”

“Yep.” Isaac waves off a two-fingered salute, half sincere, half mocking. “Whatever you say.” 

He walks out the door, and Derek doesn’t call after him. He can’t say that he feels a weight being lifted from his shoulders, but at least the fog in his brain seems for the first time in days as though it might be clearing. So that’s something.

 

**XVII.**

His guardian doesn’t ask where he’s been, as per usual. She waves at the fridge, muttering something about milk and deli meat. Isaac nods wordlessly and ascends the staircase.

He stands in the middle of his room and looks around at the sketches on the walls. In the bright of day, the soft tone of the lead shading seems less pronounced than it did in the dark. He moves to the window and opens the glass. The breeze drifts in, raises goosebumps on his forearms. He leans through and closes his eyes against the sun, enjoys the warmth of nature’s heat against his skin.

And he breathes.


End file.
